


Pretty Little Lies

by Bookmonster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:42:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookmonster/pseuds/Bookmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mycroft receives the text from Moriarty he crumbles, Lestrade is the only one he can let see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Little Lies

The glass drained slowly as the room’s shadows darkened and the sky threw off the last shades of day in pink and orange. The phone buzzed on the table where he'd replaced it after the last text. After Moriarty's text. 

He’d had to read it twice before it had sunk in. Sherlock. Why did it always come back to his little brother? He knew that Sherlock held a lot of what he did, or didn’t do, in contempt. For a supposed man of action Sherlock was curiously passive, allowing puzzles to fall in his lap rather than influencing event. Mycroft had always been the one to make the difficult decisions whilst Sherlock got to sneer and retreat, leaving such unsavoury matters to someone else. 

People often made the mistake of thinking that the Holmes brothers were similar and to the casual eye their cold and logical exterior did seem to offer some evidence in that respect. However, the brothers differed in more fundamental ways. Sherlock’s simplistic belief in the value of the truth infuriated Mycroft, what was more important was people’s perception of what the truth was and often times for that a lie was more useful.

Mycroft picked up his phone, one unread message. The world didn't stop even though he wished it would sometimes. Lestrade. Of course. Mycroft sighed and placed the phone carefully back on the table. 

There was nothing to do, no plans he could make. It was over, the game had played out and Mycroft had lost, been outmanoeuvred. Moriarty would have used the information however he saw fit, all that work and years of planning ruined for his little brother to show off to that woman. He ran a weary hand across his face and smoothed his hair down, a sound across the room captured his attention.

"You didn't answer my text." Lestrade was watching him from the doorway and Mycroft allowed himself a small smile.

"Seemed pointless with you in the house."

"How did you...nevermind. Here."

Lestrade walked over with two tumblers filling his hands and pushed one into Mycroft's hand. A small measure of amber liquid swirling in the bottom of the glass.

"Maybe I should ask if you can read my mind?"

"I think anyone can see that you need a drink right now. I don't have to be Sherlock to see that." 

Mycroft grimaced slightly at the mention of his brother but covered quickly. Obviously not quickly enough as Lestrade's eyebrow quirked. Damn, he was letting his defences down far too much, that or the drink he’d had earlier was having a stronger effect than he realised, after all it had been a while since he'd indulged.

"So no mention of your brother. Got it. Anything you want to or can talk about?" 

Mycroft shook his head slightly, finger rested against his mouth as he watched Lestrade pace. So his wife was still having the affair and he'd gone to lunch with a colleague who was having money problems, not that Mycroft would mention either, indelicate was his brother’s approach. What was the point in knowing these sorts of things if you didn’t use them somehow? Sherlock only ever seemed to use them to show off, the only reason he ever withheld his observations for some sort of grand reveal. Sherlock had never realised the true value of information otherwise he would never give it away so freely. 

The room was in near darkness now, more difficult to read expressions but body language and voice were usually more important anyway, so Mycroft closed his eyes. It felt better that way, the burn and warmth of the alcohol settled like a low ember in his stomach. Lestrade's footsteps a comforting backdrop to his unruly thoughts, giving them rhythm, a beat against which to measure. 

“Sally had a breakthrough on her case then. It was the butcher I assume.”

Lestrade paused as if following Mycroft’s voice back from wherever his thoughts had taken him so far away. He watched silently as Mycroft stood and crossed the room, opened the cabinet and selected a small carafe from the bottles secreted there, the glass clinking loudly in the silence.

“You’re angry.”

Mycroft felt the bottle taken out of his hand, if Greg noticed his hand tremble he didn’t say anything, just watched him carefully as Mycroft perched on the edge of the table. The plans that had taken years to perfect and set into motion, completely destroyed, all by a passing whim of his brother’s. Mycroft smiled though, a tight, unforgiving smile.

“Perhaps. People will die Lestrade, because I didn’t plan for something. Never realised I’d have to.”

“There’s nothing more you could have done then.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because you would try to save them, and if I know you even a tiny amount I know that you’ve been through every scenario twice and as a Holmes I’m betting that you see at least three times as many of those as anyone else could come up with.”

“You really believe that of me.”

It wasn’t a question because he could see the truth of it in Lestrade’s face, his posture, his tone. Everything told Mycroft that Lestrade trusted him, trusted him to be a good man even when he didn’t always believe it of himself. Mycroft watched as Greg placed the bottle back in the cabinet. For the best Mycroft thought, If he was going to face Sherlock and that woman he’d best do it as sober as possible. Mycroft stood and pulled his waistcoat straight, doing up the buttons of his shirt.

“You’re going out?”

“Unfortunately. It can’t be delayed.”

Mycroft pulled his tie on and turned to retrieve his phone. He paused as he adjusted his tie when he felt Lestrade’s arm circle around him until his back was flush with Lestrade’s chest. Displays of affection were not usually tolerated but Mycroft let his head fall back slightly, needing the moment of weakness as he steeled his nerves for the coming confrontation. Lestrade’s hands brushed up and down Mycroft’s sides until the tension he hadn’t even realised he was holding released a little and he could breath.

“Should I stay?”

“This business may take longer than I’m willing to make you wait. I also don’t think I would be most congenial company when I return I’m afraid.”

Lestrade didn’t ask where he was going, they both knew that with their lines of work there were things they couldn’t share but at least if they didn’t ask they didn’t have to refuse to answer. A small difference perhaps but one that avoided unrealistic expectations. Mycroft allowed himself one more moment of weakness before pulling away. Lestrade watched as Mycroft finished putting himself together, unruffled as ever, as if he’d never fallen apart in the first place.


End file.
